


let's break the internet (we do it the best)

by safeandsound13sreputationera (safeandsound13)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Smut, mentions of dubcon/non con in previous relationship, revenge porn, revenging the revenge porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 18:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30126720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13sreputationera
Summary: When her ex Finn leaks a sex tape that features Clarke, Bellamy is determined to remind her how much better she deserves.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 128
Collections: The 100 Kinkmeme Round 2021





	let's break the internet (we do it the best)

**Author's Note:**

> happy kinkmeme! i love simp bellamy sue me
> 
> EDIT: I HATE MEN!!!!! EXCEPT BELLAMY!!!! I HATE ALL MEN!!!!

Bellamy is fucking gutted as soon as Octavia sends him the link.

_o (09:21 pm): have u seen this? fucked up, bro :/_

_o (09:21 pm): so fucking embarrassing_

_o (09:22 pm): if i was her i’d kill myself 4 sure_

Technically, he knows revenge porn isn’t per se more illegal than physical assault. Both are probably as illegal, if illegal was a scale. Yet, Finn deserves to have his face bashed in by his fist, maybe a few lungs knocked loose too, and Clarke didn’t fucking deserve to have a tape of her naked and being attacked by his pencil-dick leaked all over the internet. 

If there was a scale of deserve, Clarke would be on the end of it, because she deserves everything good in the world. She’s brilliant, and compassionate, and _good_. And he hates this, he hates that someone she used to love abused her trust like this, made something so intimate public property.

Of course, Clarke is nowhere to be found. It's what she does. He doesn’t even bother calling her. She probably turned off her phone, went somewhere where she could be alone.

He knows her though. He knows her spots, where she goes to retreat and hide. The key is under the small obsese frog statue by the front door of Wells’ old cabin, and he finds her on the same linoleum kitchen floor he’s peeled her off of multiple times. 

Three times, to be exact. After Jake. After Wells. After Lexa.

Finn never got the kitchen floor, until now. 

Clarke’s pressed up against one of the tacky bright orange cabinets, wearing one of his big oversized sweaters with the sleeves pulled over her hands, a half-empty bottle of rum by her ankle. The first thing he notices is that she’s not crying. 

Clarke isn’t a crier. She doesn’t cry often. Never in public, sporadically in someone else’s presence, sometimes when she’s alone though, she’s admitted that much to him. She’d rather process her emotions rationally, and if that’s not possible, she pushes them aside and ignores them indefinitely. 

“Baby,” he starts tentatively, slowly sinking down in front of her on his haunches, fingers twitching with the need to reach out for her, grip her hand or tuck her frizzy hair behind her ear, but not sure if she’d want to be touched now. “You okay?”

Her glazed over eyes drag up off the floor slowly, her frown disintegrating as they re-focus on him. Her first instinct is to smile, but she bites it back quickly. She blinks a few more times, her mouth opening and then closing. Clarke swallows hard, then reaches for the fingers tight around his keys, dangling off his knee, as if needing to reassure herself he’s really there, like he’d ever want to be away from her, or maybe ground herself back to the present. His eyes dip down to her hand, notice the abrasions on her knuckles. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he echoes, soft, and now that he has permission, moves forward to wind his free hand into her hair, ducking his head forward to kiss her temple, offer her some comfort. 

Her voice sounds so small, so upset, he wants to die. “You’re not mad?”

He didn't watch more than two minutes of the ten minute video, fast-forwarding through the first few of sloppy making-out and dry foreplay, and then quitting as soon as he could taste the sick stuck in the back of his throat watching Finn on top of her. That's _his_ girl, right there. Being violated, this private part of her -- for everyone to see. 

Is he mad? He’s homicidal. 

Bellamy sniffs a little, running his thumb over the back of her hand, careful to avoid the parts that must hurt. He’s not sure whether to say it or not, doesn’t want to make her feel guilty or anything, but he needs her to know it’s the opposite, that he would never be at her for something like _this_. Some asshole exploiting her good faith. “I kind of hate that you think I’d be mad.”

“I didn’t. I just--” She averts her eyes, shoulders hunching over a little, and it breaks his fucking heart. “People can surprise you.”

Goddamnit. Both of them are quite pessimistic, and where he tends to be more realistic and she favors idealism, she always believed in the good of people, in the fact that everyone can do better. He hates to think Finn broke that inside of her, that he took that from her. She has enough trouble as it is, being vulnerable with other people, opening up to them. 

His nostrils flare, and he even makes half a move to stand up, seeing red, “I’m going to kill him.”

Clarke tugs him back down, tightening her hand around his. “Already attempted to do that. You know what he said?” There’s a bitter huff of laughter spilling from her lips, worried red by her teeth. “He said he just wanted to post it on some pornsite, boast about who he managed to bag.” She’s smiling, but it’s sour. “He thought that because there’s millions of videos on there, that no one would ever recognize us.”

It’s simple narcissistic douchebag-o-mathics so Bellamy fills in, “And then when it disappeared into a sea of millions of videos and he got no credit--”

No credit for pulling someone so out of his league it’s not even the same ballgame, something that pathetic loser desperately craves considering he has nothing else going for him besides manipulating pretty girls with his boyband hair and sparkly little beady eyes. Bellamy is self-aware enough to recognize Clarke’s out of his league too, that he’s lucky she even wants to be with him; this smart, beautiful, strong-willed and complex dichotomy of a person.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, fingernails of her free hand digging into her thigh. “He wanted more people to see. Finn said -- it was an ego thing. That he's been depressed lately, wanted to feel good.” Her jaw sets, dark midnight blue eyes flashing with anger and frustration. How couldn’t Finn have predicted this would happen? The chain of events seems inevitable. “First Reddit, and 4chan, but that one was automatically linked to his Twitter, and then people caught on and--”

Bellamy grins a little, tentative, but proud, shifting across the floor to settle at her side. “And you punched the living shit out of him?”

“I did,” she laughs, immediately leaning into him as he drapes his arm around her shoulder, cheek pressed against the junction between his neck and chest. “He said it’s just as bad for him as it is for me.” She snorts, drolly, and he knows it’s just an act, that she’s barely hanging on, that she’s only kept herself together for this long so that she didn’t have to fall apart by herself. “That TacoBell fired him, and his mom is _disappointed_.” She wipes at a tear before it has the chance to slide down her cheek, forcing her voice to stay steady even if her bottom lip is trembling, “Like my body isn’t out there on the internet for the entire world to -- rip apart.”

Bellamy stiffens, entire body tense with the rage circulating through his system, although he tries to remain calm for her. She needs him right now. He can murder Finn any time he wants. The arm around her shoulder reaches for the hand in her lap, clammy and warm. “There’s not going to be an open casket, I promise you that.”

Clarke shakes her head, a watery smile and a half-hearted laugh the best she can give him. “The worst part is that I loved him, I really did,” she confesses, a crack in her voice. “And he reduced our entire relationship to my body. Not me as a person, but to the fact that he is so proud he got to fuck me, he needed the entire world to know.”

He thumbs at a tear on her chin, wipes at the wet track it left all the way down her cheek. Bellamy feels useless, helpless, wishes he could tear apart every networking cable in the universe, beat anyone who laid eyes on that video to a pulp, that he could take all her pain and suffer through it himself. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she brushes him off, turning her face to press her cold, red nose into his neck, inhaling shakily as she pulls her knees up to her chest. “I feel better, now that you’re here.” His hand comes up to weave into her messy ponytail, scratching at her scalp. Clarke kisses his throat, mumbling a soft, “On my side.”

Yeah. He’s _mad_. 

Mostly, he’s concerned about Clarke. Even if she’s proven she bounces back, no matter what. That nothing is too great a strife for her, or too much of a burden to bear. She always keeps going, never breaks, continuously is moving ahead. It’s not who she is. She’ll let herself wallow with him for five more minutes, and then it’ll all be in the past. She’ll have a gameplan to go in the next ten. He’ll still _always_ be concerned.  
  


But then if examines it just a little closer, if he peels aside all of those layers of disgust and sympathy and heartbrokenness on her behalf, he's left with just a tiny bit of -- dismay. There's jealousy too, a small twinge of a primal kind of possessiveness, but that's easy to brush aside now he’s out of the heat of the moment. Finn isn't with Clarke, not anymore, and for good reason too, from the looks of it. 

Yet she was with him, for months. Sex is just sex. It’s not everything there is to a relationship. It's physical. Bellamy's totally capable of separating it from emotion, usually. Not with Clarke, which is why they went from friends with benefits to being in a loving relationship after two stubborn, painful months. His blood pressure nowadays spikes more thinking of someone kissing Clarke's forehead, of holding her hand, brushing back her hair, sleeping beside her, or being the first person to hear about whatever weird dream she had about a spaceship and a green moon with two suns that night, than anyone making her feel good for a fleeting moment. Still. 

For months, she let him fuck her like that? _Months?_

“What’s on your mind?” Clarke muses, pulling him back from his inner turmoil. He can feel her long eyelashes flutter against his neck, one of her hands creeping under his shirt to rest over the flat of his stomach.

Well aware he’s being petty, insensitive, selfish even, making a big deal out of absolutely -- “Nothing,” he lies.

He feels more than sees her smile, nail scratching at the trail of hair below his belly button -- which, _Clarke._ Jesus. “I can _hear_ you thinking.”

Bellamy’s jaw clenches, then unclenches. “It’s just--” 

He cuts himself off, causing her to lift her head up to look at him properly, searching his face. “Spit it out,” she pushes, her stubborn self.

He doesn’t want to, but it’s bugging him, and it was on the tip of his tongue even before she was prodding him to confess, so he can’t be blamed for blurting out, “You enjoyed that?”

Clarke tilts her head, squinting her eyes at him. There’s still the faint tracks of wetness beneath her eyes, a few splotches of red up her neck, but she looks at him with more clarity, even a flash of that familiar annoyance there, “What?”

He doesn’t want to make her talk about that stupid fucking video or her mistake of an ex-boyfriend ever again. “I -- nevermind.”

Her gaze unnarrows, relaxing back against him and the cabinet after a long moment. “You watched the video.”

“I did,” he admits, grumbling. And all at once he realizes how shitty that is, how horrible of a boyfriend, of a best friend he was for even considering it to start with. That wasn’t his decision to make. “Sorry, _fuck_ , I probably should’ve checked beforehand if you were okay with me--”

“Don’t care,” she cuts him off immediately, shrugging a little. Something more defiant, demanding comes over her expression. “Tell me what’s up.”

The little that Bellamy managed to stomach watching was _bad._ Clarke was mostly just lying there, hands limp on Finn’s back, eyes closed in concentration, making soft noises either out of pleasure or discomfort. The stale missionary position, the same robotical shallow rhythm, no clitorial simulation. He didn’t bother to check, but he knows it’s debatable at best she even managed to come from that fumbling mess.

When she’s with him, she’s vocal, she’s bossy, she’s -- participating. Maybe that’s what’s bothering him, the fact she was so passive, that she was did none of the fucking and instead let Finn do all of it for her, use her like some sort of human fleshlight. Sometimes they do that too, where she lets him fuck her and Bellamy gets to tease her about being a pillow princess, but it’s never like whatever the fuck it was he saw in that video. No spark in her blue eyes, no coy smile playing on her lips, no fingernails leaving crescent-shaped marks on backs or toes curling into the mattress.

He reminds himself that’s a good thing. He shouldn’t be wishing her exes fucked her better, probably. He’s just fucked up in the head like that, ever since he started falling in love with her. Even well before that. He’ll always think she deserves more, every version of Clarke, past, present and future.

Apparently the look on his face is enough of an answer.

“You think you can do better,” she states, not as pissed off as he’d imagined she’d be, because, yeah. If he truly examines it, allows himself that kind of selfishness, he _does_ think his dickgame outruns Finn’s in circles. It’s not pride, or a weird kind of version of a pissing contest, it’s the truth. It’s wanting her to know she deserves more. That she could have more, any time she wanted, needed. That he would do anything, to bring her pleasure, to make her happy, to keep her forever. 

He doesn’t care if that justifies his friends calling him a simp, behind his back and to his face, or if it’s a reason for a disapproving Octavia to grumble about how Clarke has a weird, unhealthy hold on him, or for Clarke to give him that strange, melancholic look sometimes, like she can’t quite believe he’s real.

Bellamy scoffs, casual, like he isn’t half-hard right now just thinking about it. “I have a camera that’s not on the back of a calculator or held by someone suffering from Parkinson’s disease, so yeah. Probably.”

“You think you can _fuck_ me better,” she corrects herself, knowing him better than that, her gaze steady on his, making it impossible for him to look away. There's a challenge there he hasn't entirely figured out yet.

His eyes flare with heat, the same insistent rage prickling beneath his skin as his fingers unconsciously tighten into her hair. “Of course I can, princess.” There’s a huff of indignant air, a mixture of frustration and arrogance. “We both know that.”

Clarke slowly drags the hand she’s clutching in between her yoga pants-clad thighs, making him cup her centre -- warm to the touch -- keeping him in place. “Prove it.”

He considers it. She looked so sad, before. “You sure?”

“Need you,” she mumbles quietly, calm and steady to let him know she’s okay, burying her face into his shoulder. Her breath hot against his oversensitive skin, “Just wanna feel good.”

Bellamy shifts, his keys clattering to the floor as his free hand reaches for the hip the farthest away from him, hoisting her completely into his lap. His hand wrestles it's way inside of her pants, slipping two fingers into her heat, collecting her arousal to swirl it around where she's most sensitive. She twitches against him with pleasure, mouth on his, exchanging soft little kisses until she's more breathing into him than actually kissing back, too distracted, too close to the edge.

“Bed,” she demands, and he eagerly obeys, banding an arm around her as he lifts both of them up off the floor easily, making his way over to the little bedroom in the back with her legs wrapped around his waist. 

Bellamy throws her on top of the squeaky mattress with a bounce, not wasting any time when it comes to tugging his own shirt over his head. Once he’s done throwing it aside, his gaze is drawn back to his girlfriend. Ass propped out enticingly as her hand reaches into the front pocket of his sweater, pulling out her phone and stretching out her arm to prop it up on the nightstand. He watches her warily, realizing what she’s doing. And _fuck_ , if it doesn’t turn him on.

“Clarke,” he rasps, rough. It’s a bad idea. Especially after what just happened. And yet, he already finds his resolve wavering -- he wants it that badly. Wants to fuck her good and hard, wants the world to know it too, wants everyone to be jealous that she's his and they'll never be allowed to touch her, that it's an ache they'll have to learn to live with.

She crawls over to him, lifting up on her knees. “I trust you,” she promises, folding her hands over his chest, her words making something warm swell inside of it. Then that devious glint in her eyes appears, the corners of her mouth curving up into a smirk as she presses closer to him, lips hovering over his as she murmurs, “And it’ll be so hot, don’t you think? Watching you fuck me?”

He kisses her once, because he can’t resist, then grunts, slapping the junction between her ass and thigh as he motions for her to roll over. “You’re gonna be the one fucking me, princess.”

Clarke gets on her hands and knees as he drags her yoga pants and panties down her ass, appreciating every inch of skin he uncovered with his palm, squeezing the cheeks, pulling them apart to watch her glistening cunt and pushing them together entirely for his own pleasure.

Her ass presses back into his hands, impatient, and he moves his hips back so she can’t get any relief from it. Instead he hisses scornfully, dragging a finger through her folds to test out just how wet she is. Clarke holds her breath but remains still, and he rewards her by rubbing a few circles over her clit, taking some of the edge off.

Her head drops forward with a low, drawn-out moan, and his cock jumps, strained against the confines of his pants. With one hand still working her clit, he uses the other to start unbuckling his belt. “You’re so turned on, aren’t you, baby? You’re right there, aren’t you? Barely even touched you and you’re dripping down my fingers.”

Clarke hums, so he pinches her clit to get him something more than that, earning himself a nice little yelp of pleasure-pain. Her thighs are starting to tremble, fingers gripping the sheets tight enough for her knuckles to be a pale white and he knows it won’t take much more, so he abruptly pulls his hand away.

The whine that tears from her throat then, the choked ‘ _Bellamy_ ’, and the reflexive chasing of his hand, that’s the actual stuff. He uses her arousal to coat his dick with it, pumping himself a few times before he tugs on her hips to move her further towards the edge of the mattress. 

Bellamy lines himself up, but doesn’t press inside, just lets it linger there for a moment, the almost of relief, the sweetness of release within grasp, but not quite yet, not entirely. In the meantime his arm curls around and under his sweater to paw at her breast, pulling down the cups of her bra to twist a nipple in between his thumb and forefinger.

“Please,” she breathes, voice trembling, and he knows how much of an effort it’s for her to keep still, her instinct to demand what she wants, her clit aching, her tits so sensitive under his fingers, her cunt just one small move away from being filled up just the way she likes. “Please, _Bell_.”

Finally, he obeys, pushing himself inside of her in one hard thrust. She squeaks, and then moans, and not all to his surprise her pussy is immediately fluttering around him, the little stimulation enough to make her come. Her shivering arms give out under her weight, and she has to lower herself to her elbows, forehead pressed to the sheets. 

God, it’s a pretty sight. Her ass propped up in the air, the arrhythmic clenching and unclenching of her dripping heat around his thick cock, blonde locks that have escaped her ponytail plastered to the sweat-slick skin of her flushed neck.

He gives her a second to come to, then slaps her ass meanly, a string of her thick arousal following his dick as he pulls out and thrusts back in with purpose, one hand pressing down between her shoulder blades. “Fuck yourself on my cock, baby, come on.”

Clarke whimpers, but ever the trooper, pushes herself back up onto her hands. Carefully, he helps her tug the sweater over her head, revealing more creamy, overheated skin to his greedy eyes as it leaves her in her bra and a flimsy, white thin-strapped top. 

His cock slips from her as he leans down to press a kiss just above the hook of her bra, and Clarke reaches back to squeeze the hand folded over her hip, sending him a sweet smile over her shoulder.

_Too_ sweet, so he pounds back into her. This time, when he threatens to pull all the way back out, Clarke chases him with her hips. He stands in place, letting her work herself on his cock as one of his hands rubs up and down her back encouragingly, the other massaging her ass. 

She rocks back and forth, undulates her hips, moves in circles, shallow and deep, fast and slow -- anything that feels good, anything that brings her pleasure, anything that brings her that much closer to the edge again. He loves her like this, desperate, frantic, focused entirely on getting what she wants from him, making sweet, sweet little noises. 

His arm curls back around her, and this time the arm banded around her waist and roughly palming at her tits lifts her back up to his chest, making her cry out at the change in angle. He licks a line up the column of her splotchy neck, drags her earlobe between his teeth, “He never fucked you like this, did he?” he prompts, kissing the part of her cheek he can reach. “Tell me.”

Clarke tries to shake her head, but she’s too weak, or his hold is too strong, so instead she forces out a scratchy, “No, no. _Bell._ ”

He tweaks her nipple, making her cry out in pleasure-pain. “No _what_?”

“No, he never fucked me like this,” she moans, licking her lips, brow pinching together in concentration as she struggles to keep her eyes open.

“Didn’t look this good fucking each other either, huh?” Bellamy wonders out loud, letting off her breast to slide his hand down her soft tummy, tapping at her clit instead. He truly is a masochist. “Didn’t look this good fucking him. Never did.”

“No,” she agrees, frantic, one hand clawing at his neck, the other covering the hand over her pussy. “Only look good fucking you.”

“That’s right,” he cooes, satisfied but not _enough_ , roughly tilting her chin with his other hand, making her twist her neck in an awkward angle so he can cover her mouth with his, immediately licking into her and swallowing all the sounds she’s making. “That’s ‘cause you were made for me, weren’t you?”

Clarke gasps into his mouth as his fingers speed up over her clit, thrusts just swallow in this position but enough to drag over that one spot that drives her crazy, and then she’s nodding in his hold as much as she can, fingers tightening in his hair to pull his mouth back over hers. “Mhmm,” she mumbles into his mouth, “Yours.”

With one more unexpected pinch of his fingers, one more hard thrust, and she’s coming around him, body tensing up as her breath stutters in the back of her throat. It’s then he finally allows himself to let go too, crying out that he loves her, spilling his cum inside of her until it’s dripping down the sides of his cock.

_Even prettier_ , he thinks.

Bellamy collapses on top of the bed with one arm slung over his eyes as he comes down from his high, Clarke unmoving beside him with her face pressed into the mattress as she catches her own breath. 

Once she’s not as overstimulated, he pulls her into his side. She presses a kiss to his sternum, then mumbles, “Love you too.” She’s heavy with sleep, but he didn’t entirely fuck her to the point of no comphrension, because, as an afterthought, she lazily reaches for her phone on the nightstand, ending the recording. 

He watches her place it in a random folder and hide it from her regular photo app, worry starts to gnaw at him. Sure, it might be hot, but it’s not worth risking it. “You can delete it, if you want.”

Clarke tosses the phone aside, propping her chin up on his chest to raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t pretend like it won’t turn you on to watch this.”

She does know him. Better than he knows himself.

“Maybe so,” he muses, using both hands to pull her hair tie from the ponytail that’s just the sad excuse of one by now, running his fingers through the silky blonde strands. “But nothing could ever compare to the real thing.”

Clarke presses her cheek back against his heated chest, long grown past making fun of him for his occasional cheesiness. “That’s good, because you’re stuck with me.”

He chuckles lightly. “Who knows? You might be able to make a career out of this. Maybe you’ve found your calling.”

“Oh, so _that’s_ it,” she teases, mockingly, lifting her head back up to raise her eyebrows at him. “Accepting the shame of having a girlfriend who dabbles in porn so you can eventually be her house husband.”

“Hey,” he states, offended, pinching her ass so it earns him a small squeak. “I’ve never lied about my intentions to be a stay-at-home-dad.”

“Ah, yes,” Clarke muses, eyes gleaming with a tired but amused glint. A rush of fondness swells up inside of him, his gorgeous, resilient girl. “Princess with two z’s underscore MILF. We’ll make us millions.”

He ducks his head forward to kiss her forehead, thumb reaching up to wipe a strand of damp hair off her temple. “Just for the record -- I’ll never be ashamed of you either.”

She smiles, soft, and then it turns into more of a wry smirk. “You can just be proud, like Finn.”

“Exactly,” Bellamy plays along, squeezing her ass with one of his palms. “I did that.” 

“And not only that, you also get my morning breath and PMS. All free of charge.”

“Reddit will be seething in their own cesspools of misogyny once they find out.”

“I love you,” she beams, lifting up slightly to peck the underside of his jaw. “I love you even when you go caveman on me.”

“You _like_ when I go caveman on you.”

Clarke considers it with a short hum. “True. I should accidentally have a porno released more often.”

He brings his arms up around her, squeezing tightly. “No more pornos without me though. Goes against my caveman instincts.”

“Right. And we’ll just tag my mother on Facebook directly next time. Seems easier.”

“DM might be more effective.”

“Maybe just rent a Billboard.”

“Welcome To Arkadia. Home to Princess with two z’s underscore MILF.”

She smiles, faint, and it’s sleepy, her eyes fluttering closed. “Sounds like a foolproof plan.”

He kisses the crown of her head one more time, because he can’t help himself, then mock-promises, “We can go over the details tomorrow.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> title from cybersex by doja cat  
> let me know what you think ;)


End file.
